


The taste of butter and coffee and John

by NyaNya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Fics where Sherlock tells John he's beautiful are pretty rare (that I've seen). This changes now., First Kiss, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:58:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5888506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyaNya/pseuds/NyaNya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Small fluffy domestic ficlet where Sherlock may or may not have said something out loud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The taste of butter and coffee and John

It was breakfast time at 221B Baker Street, although for most people, breakfast time would have been long gone.

John was reading a newspaper, absorbed by whatever piece of news seemed relevant right now, and would be forgotten by lunch time. Why would he even bother filling his head with instantly forgettable information, Sherlock had no clue. Sherlock was studying John’s expression as he read on, totally engulfed by his newspaper as if it was his whole world.

To Sherlock, John was his universe, and he was reading him just as avidly.

He loved the little scar on his forehead, just above the brow, the tiny vein pumping slightly on his temple. He loved the way John’s forehead creased when he was reading something that might be serious, and returned back to relative smoothness when he was scanning through trivial articles. He loved his middle-aged wrinkles, the bags below his eyes proving he didn’t sleep well last night again. He loved his slightly damp hair from his morning shower, the beads of water leaving little trails reaching down to his cheekbones, little rivers he wanted to dry with his thumbs and maybe hint at a caress at the same time.

He loved John’s mouth, how it arched perfectly and opened way too big whenever he took a bite from his toasts – how many times had he imagined himself kissing this mouth, filling this mouth, and he had to turn his gaze a few seconds to avoid blushing – the steady movement of the jawline, the smoothness of his chin, the little cut of this morning’s shave.

You’re beautiful, John. You’re beautiful. How many times have I wanted to tell you. You’re not perfect, but you’re beautiful.

John looked up from his newspaper and Sherlock quickly studied his cup of tea as gravely as if he were to write a blog post on the 72 different ways a cup of tea can provide an alibi when lovingly studying one’s flatmate.

“You’re beautiful too, Sherlock, you know”.

John returned to his newspaper, took the last bites of his last toast, a last sip of coffee, while Sherlock’s mind was going full whirlwind mode, unable to form a single, cohesive sentence, crushed by the incredible weight of these five little words hanging there, floating between them, unable to tell if he had dreamed them as they were still bouncing in his mind and echoing and did I just and did he just –

John got up from his chair, took two steps and leaned slightly over, just enough to give Sherlock a light kiss, just lips brushing lips and a tiny crumb of toast and the taste of butter and coffee and morning and John.

John left, humming lightly, and Sherlock simply stayed where he was, smiling.


End file.
